


Mine Until the End

by typhlosionnn



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, The violence isn't that bad, also there will prolly be other characters later, because the SHOW barely gives us any, hope y'all like it, i'm new here so idrk how all this works, more focus on feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 19:08:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7001002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/typhlosionnn/pseuds/typhlosionnn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tormund must break down Brienne's walls if he's ever to win her heart, and Brienne must learn to open herself to receive the love of another as they assist Jon Snow and Sansa Stark in the reclaiming of Winterfell.</p><p>I'm really just trynna get my feels out about these two or else I'll be a screeching mess 48/7</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chap 1: Brienne and Tormund's first conversation doesn't go too smoothly~
> 
> when I wrote this a few days ago, I had no idea where it was goin and it was my first time writing fanfic that with the intent to post, so things start out a bit slow, my apologies

The bearded man's wild eyes felt like rough, calloused fingers careening across every inch of her skin. Brienne shivered when his eyes lingered on her. These trembles that rippled through her had naught to do with the frigid winds this far north, though she promised herself they did. She scowled at him in return. The more she caught him gawking, the deeper her brow furrowed. In the courtyard, at dinners, in corridors, on training grounds; always did his gaze persist. Brienne's confusion turned to frustration, and frustration turned to anger. In the days since her arrival at Castle Black, he only ever stared, but never broached her presence.

Brienne's past with men was spotty, if bleak, to say the least. Her awkward build had poised her as the bud of many a cruel jape throughout her upbringing and hardened her maiden's heart against wishes of love and beauty. Westerosi men made it clear to her that she was no maiden, not by their definition. To them, her brutish strength made her more man than woman, save for her virgin, feminine parts. The nasty words they spat at her adorned their faces before they ever opened their mouths. Their eyes spun a tale far more cruel than any profanity, their sneers and guffaws like daggers wearing away at the hull of her armored heart. Long had she come to hate the creeping of a man's eyes on her person. Their looks had always been a mockery, gawking at her freakishness. Only ever fear or disgust.

Brienne tried to make the bearded man's gaze mean the same, but to no avail. Instead, it always gave off a carnal sense of caressing, a look of drinking her in, and although she never felt the daggers from him, a strange, different kind of piercing played at beguiling her. A warmer, more delicate sensation lanced through her armor and boiled her blood. She ground her teeth at the thought. Its unfamiliarity unsettled her.

Out on the training grounds one day, Brienne hacked away rhythmically at a training dummy when the fingers skittered across her skin again. She turned to find the bearded man had joined her on the training grounds and taken up with a training dummy not too far from her own. She attempted to ignore him, until the shivers grew too strong. Brienne let her practice sword fall to the ground as she rounded on him.

" _Can I help you?_ " she said. Her voice gushed with days worth of her pent up contempt.

The man froze and gaped at her. "Ah...no. No." He shook his head, his flaming beard rustling against the collar of his furs.

"Then, if you have no business with me, keep your eyes off me and to yourself.”

"I don't reckon I'll be doin' that, lass." He fixed his hands on his sword belt and cleared his throat. "Mighty hard to keep me eyes off such a fine woman like yourself…”

This time, Brienne gawked. Her heart stopped for a moment before a single, thick heartbeat jangled at her knees. "...I _beg_ your pardon?”

"You're ah...ahem," his eyes slid away her as he shifted his feet. "I didn't know ye kneelers bred beauties such as you.”

Brienne's eyes narrowed. "You mock me.”

"What in any of your bloody hells would I mock? Yer strong, beautiful, and swing that sword a might better than any of those cowardly shites." He gestured over to a group of Night's Watchmen in-training. "Though, a battle axe might fit that pretty figure of yours better," he mused.

The air's wintery bite disappeared as a warm blush bloomed in Brienne's cheeks and danced into her nether regions. His words incited unfamiliar titters through her body, a kind of high-pitched trill that threw shocks of heat even to the far reaches of her fingers and toes. Brienne stared at him for several long moments before turning on her heel and stalking away without another word. If she spent any longer with the man, she might have begun to believe his honeyed words. Though, try as she might to leave the strange feeling behind with him, it held fast and strong in her heart.

The red-bearded man stared after her, confounded. He'd done nothing but shower her with truth. He tried to go after her, but his feet remained glued to the spot for the pang of his spurned affections or the shock of having at last spoken to his goddess, he was not sure. The thought, however, that such a magnificent woman would think he mocked her with compliments lingered most poignantly in his mind. It left an ache in his belly he dared not let go unpunished.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tormund to the rescue with some strong language~
> 
> officially decided where I'm goin with this. also, I love using music to inspire certain scenes and images. Whole intro paragraph was "Kiss It Better," by Rihanna on repeat lol the lyrics were irrelevant, I was mostly going for that sound and feel

Tormund’s world had been spinning on the edge of his sanity since Castle Black’s doors first opened to welcome the three southron visitors.  
  
A tall woman with short, platinum-blonde hair and piercing blue eyes cantered in all grace at the head of the party. In that instant, her strong jaw, porcelain skin, and supple lips commanded the whole of Tormund’s attention. Her stature, her gait, her poise, grace, physique; the entirety of her person dragged at him like the hands of a siren’s song, but he stood too dazed to oblige his sudden need for her. Lightening struck through his whole being when she met his gaze, as if deigned by the blue-eyed goddess herself. Upon her dismount from her large gelding, a vow rang through his head like a refrain: _I must make her mine._  
  
In the days following her arrival, Tormund learned little of the woman who had captivated his heart, only her melodious name and the House from whence she hailed: Lady Brienne of Tarth in the Sapphire Isle.  
  
Approaching the woman soon grew as insurmountable as scaling the Wall itself. Ironically, the latter had proven less difficult for Tormund. Tense limbs that refused to obey his commands thwarted his every attempt at advancing. Even the smallest of words caught in his throat, choked into submission by the surge of adoration deep in his chest. Over several dinners, he made due with making eyes at her, hoping his true intentions somehow reached her. She turned away each time, blind to his affections. The naught of his efforts gained more evidence with each passing day.  
  
That fateful morning on the training grounds appeared to have broken his misfortune as he, at last, breached the walls of her attention. Luck found him the handful of words he spoke, and just when he found his voice, pouring the truth of his heart out to her as bare as the fresh fallen snow, his luck crumbled before his eyes. She stalked away from him, shoulders tight, fists clenched, and pounding foot-holes into the snow inches deeper than his own.  
  
Another 2 days passed before he found himself beckoned to the Lord Commander’s chambers to discuss the strategy for their impending battle at Winterfell. In that time, Tormund had not seen a single golden-white lock of the Lady Brienne.  
  
_The lass is skirtin’ me…_  
  
Tormund poured over the matter day in and day out, trying to figure the offense he’d caused, but to no avail. When he entered the chambers, Jon Snow, Dolorous Edd, Ser Davos Seaworth, and the fire-kissed Sansa Stark were already deliberating over a makeshift map of Westeros. Nearest to his end of the large table sat Brienne on the other side. She spared him a fleeting glance before shifting closer to the map. Tormund pulled back a look of thrilled surprise and took the seat across from her, paying her little mind as possible. Until he deciphered the writings on the walls she’d built around herself, he thought it best to leave her be. The back and forth dithering of battle plans did little to hold his attention, however, for a light blush appeared to have been tickling at the lady’s cheeks since he walked in the door.  
_______  
  
By the meeting’s adjournment, all plans for battle had been settled. Their march would commence 3 days hence in two parties: the main force to march on Winterfell, led by Jon Snow and accompanied by Tormund Giantsbane, and a smaller, subsequent party led by Brienne of Tarth to Riverrun for the recruitment of the Blackfish. The two parties were to diverge when they gained a decent approach on Winterfell. Until then, they acted as a single army.  
  
Tormund assisted with provisions by calculating the strength of his numbers. He wandered into the dining hall in search of a relaxing mug of ale when he happened upon a gaggle of black brothers at the far end of a table. They snickered amongst themselves at a raucous volume. Tormund glided past, uninterested, until he heard Brienne’s name fly from one of their mouths.  
  
“I ‘eard the big bitch is still a maid.”  
  
“Aye, and there’s no wonder, is there? That mug could scare a hungry wolf off a deer’s carcass.” They roared with laughter. Tormund strode back to them and hovered, fury already hardening his face.  
  
“Oi. What’s s’ damn funny?”  
  
One of the men managed to answer in-between sniggers. “That huge woman traipsin’ around here. Brienne, they call her. ‘Brienne the Beauty’.” Another laughed.  
  
“A freak of nature, she is,” another quipped.  
  
“You watch yer goddamn mouth,” Tormund hissed. The mocking grin slid from the brother’s face, the others quick to follow suit.  
  
“What?”  
  
Tormund grabbed a fistful of the nearest brother’s hair and slammed his face onto the table. Wet, cracking sounds bit at their eardrums as the man’s nose broke against the weathered wood.  
  
“I said, watch yer _goddamn_ mouth about the Lady Brienne, cunt.”  
  
The man with the broken nose reared back and groaned with thick rivulets of blood gushing into his mouth and down his chin. The other 3 brothers stood, scraping their bench against the wood in their haste to defend their brother.  
  
“The fuck is yer problem? She yer bitch or somethin’?”  
  
“Aye, that’s right. The lady is mine.” The men balked. “And if I catch any o’ you fucks even speakin’ her name again, I’ll have each o’ ya wee cocks ripped off and roasted up for yer next dinner. Now, make yer arses scarce.”  
  
The men hesitated, but one took a step forward in defiance. Tormund towered him by over half a head and hint of rabidness twinkled in Tormund’s eyes as he peered down at the black brother.  
  
“I said,” Tormund started as he vice-gripped a fistful of the black brother’s crotch, “ _get out._ ”  
  
Sweat beaded at the man’s forehead before he scoffed and retreated, dragging his injured brother with him by the collar. Tormund's knuckles and jaw popped as he watched them slink toward the door, muttering profanities at his name. Upon looking at the exit, he glimpsed a tall figure just disappearing behind the doorframe. Tormund never saw the onlooker’s face, but he swore on the coming of the Long Night that, whomever it was, had short, platinum-blonde hair. His eyes bore into that doorframe for some time before he stepped away in resignation.  
  
_Surely not._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne's reluctant decision

_“Aye, that’s right. The lady is mine.”_  
  
On a crisp morning at Castle Black, light snowflakes drifted down from the heavens as Brienne’s mind replayed those words time and again. She practiced her forms on a battered training dummy, hoping against hope to sweat away her endless reel of thoughts concerning Tormund Giantsbane. She had not meant to hear nor see what she did, but she bore witness all the same. The smell of the afternoon’s rations cooking had drawn her to the dining hall where she stumbled on the tense scene. In secret, she watched from the doorway as Tormund brutalized one of the men who’d made her the object of his ridicule.  
  
_“You watch yer goddamn mouth.”_  
  
She delivered a heavy blow to the dummy’s side.  
  
_“The lady is mine.”_  
  
“He had no right!” she screeched aloud. In concert, she heaved a downward thrust that tore through the wooden neck of the dummy and sent its head rolling.  
  
Upon that finishing blow, a high voice yelped from behind the dummy. Terror and confusion held Brienne until Sansa stepped a few feet from behind the dummy.  
  
“M-my lady,” Brienne stuttered. She threw herself onto a knee. “My lady, I am so sorry. I hadn’t meant to frighten you, I could have hurt you—“  
  
“No, no. It’s alright, the fault is mine. I should have known to stand clear.”  
  
“I should have known you were there.”  
  
“It’s fine, no harm was done. Besides, you were clearly distracted.” Brienne peered up at Sansa as she ambled over to pick up the dummy’s disembodied head. “What ever did this poor dummy do to you?”  
  
Brienne rose to her feet, a blush creeping into her cheeks as she dusted herself off. She said nothing.  
  
“Or perhaps,” Sansa continued, “it wasn’t the dummy at all. Tell me, who _were_ you screaming at just then?”  
  
“No one, my lady, I…I was a bit lost in my thoughts, is all.”  
  
“About Tormund?”  
  
Brienne’s head snapped to Sansa’s knowing smile. “I don’t…know what you’re—“  
  
“Oh, come now, Brienne, we both know you’re a terrible liar. Besides, the whole Castle’s abuzz about the Maid of Tarth’s ‘secret wildling lover.’”  
  
“ _He is no such thing to me!_ ” Brienne blustered. “He had no right to—to do what he did. I don’t need defending, especially not from the likes of a man who claims to have laid with a _bear_! Who would brag about such a thing?”  
  
Sansa’s dulcet laugh rang across the grounds. “I think he’s charming, in rough-spun sort of way, I suppose. And the bear story obviously can’t be true.”  
  
“Regardless.”  
  
“ _Regardless_ , the man clearly fancies you. He stood up and defended you, even if you didn’t want or ask him to. That’s chivalry if I’ve ever seen it.”  
  
Brienne looked off into the distance, her countenance still riddled with troubled thoughts.  
  
“You could at least thank him for breaking that man’s nose for you. Surely you can appreciate that gesture, given the awful things he said about you.”  
  
Brienne sneered. “Well, I can’t say that I didn’t.”  
  
___________  
  
  
Brienne spent the daylight hours in the company of Lady Sansa and Podrick, determined to quiet her mind. Still, however, her thoughts wriggled in. The scene had such sharp familiarity. Hearing Tormund’s words had been like Renly Baratheon stealing her hand for that dance in the faces of those cackling men all over again. Their laughs died just as the black brothers’ smiles vanished. Her young girl’s heart flew away with Renly that day, but youth and naiveté no longer ruled her. Brienne’s past since then taught her the poignant lesson of relying only on her own strength. She needed no man’s protection, nor his so-called affections. Such savory things were for girls less hardened than she. _Still, I am not without honor._ She had been grateful to Renly and so would be to Tormund as well.  
  
Nearing the end of the eve’s dinner, Brienne set out in search of Giantsbane. She found him in the far back of the dining hall, accompanied by Jon Snow and Ser Davos. Tormund caught her eye upon her advance and squared up.  
  
“Lord Commander Snow. Ser Davos…Tormund.” She gave curt nods to each of them.  
  
Tormund exhaled and cleared his throat as Jon Snow’s eyes darted between Tormund and Brienne, a smile teetering at the corners of his lips.  
  
“Good evening to ya, Lady Brienne,” Davos said with a bright smile. “To what do we owe the honor?”  
  
“Pardon my brevity, but my business is with him,” she said, turning to face Tormund. “I should wonder if you have a moment to speak with me. In private.”  
  
Those last words slithered through the three men and hung between them. Davos’ smile remained unchanged while Jon threw his attention down at a small pea in sudden need of forking across his plate. Tormund sat stunned for a time.  
  
“…Aye. I reckon I do.”  
  
Brienne made for the door. Tormund followed at a much slower pace.  
  
“Don’t blush too ‘ard,” Davos chuckled.  
  
Tormund shot him a heated look as he clunked off after Brienne. When he was out of earshot, Jon and Davos broke into a fit of snickering.  
  
Outside of the dining hall, Brienne gazed out over the courtyard. She heard footsteps from behind and rounded on Tormund without hesitation.  
  
“About yesterday afternoon, here, in the dining hall. I first offer my apologies for eavesdropping.” Tormund grated a hand at his bearded chin. “However, that does not change what I saw, nor heard, between you and those vile men.”  
  
“Ah…Ye ‘eard all that, did ye?”  
  
“Every word. So, while I do not appreciate the spreading of false rumors about you and I…I also believe there are thanks in order.” He stopped rubbing his chin and peered at her. Brienne’s voice dropped near to a croon. “You do have my thanks…for putting an end to their nasty words.”  
  
For the briefest of moments, a pain flitted across Brienne’s face that made Tormund’s heart bleed. Her wall of austerity appeared to have thinned, and through it showed the faint outline of a sad longing for something unknown to him, yet a frail attempt happiness without it. Failure at this happiness dragged at her shoulders for the instant her mien showed it. Just as quickly as he saw it though, it disappeared.  
  
“As a parting note, I add that my gratitude only extends so far. I would appreciate it if you kindly left my fights to me from here forward. With that, I bid you a good evening.”  
  
“Does that happen a lot?” She had gotten several steps away when she stopped. “Shits like them badmouthin’ ye?”  
  
“…It doesn’t matter.”  
  
“It does. I meant what I said, if any of these fuckers dare to speak ill o’ ye—“  
  
“You don’t _have_ to do that—”  
  
“Aye, but I want to.” He stalked up to Brienne slow and easy, his feral, green eyes piercing hers. She steadied herself, taken aback by the match of their heights. Tormund’s voice sunk to a pitch that touched only their ears. “And I will. Because, it’s not just your fight anymore. I’ve made it mine now, too. Whether you like it, or not.”  
  
He slid past her and down the hall into the encroaching night. Feverish consternation held Brienne fast and burned away any trace of a word with which to retort as Tormund strolled away.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sh*t gets real~
> 
> i don't really like writing actionnnnn..

Down through The Gift and soon to approach the forests of Long Lake marched an army of 2,000 wildling men and women. At the helm rode the leader of the motley crew, Jon Snow, flanked by Ser Davos Seaworth. A short ways back Tormund Giantsbane, Lady Sansa Stark, Podrick Payne, and Lady Brienne of Tarth cantered along, talking idly amongst themselves to pass the time. Marching was slow. Without more horses, they moved at the crawling pace of the Free Folk. The wide open plains of The Gift, at last, gave way thickets of woods as the sun’s set bled oranges and yellows across the horizon. For near on a week they had been trudging south with their mouths set on the taste of Bolton blood.  
  
As he meandered around a large stone, Tormund let out a raucous guffaw. “Aye, laddie. Them white walkers’re realer than any o’ us wish they were.”  
  
“Have you fought one?” Podrick’s voice trembled with shock.  
  
“ _One?_ Har! Me and yer Lord Crow took on a whole army of ‘em. Ain’t got much to show for it, I’ll admit. Just the folk you see ‘ere and the skins on our backs.”  
  
“What are they like?” Sansa asked. “Are they really like the stories?”  
  
“I don’t know about ye stories…but, they’re _cold_. Not the kind o’ cold at Castle Black, or even north o’ the Wall. It’s the cold o’ the dead. Kind that freezes fire and cuts ye straight to the bone. It’s walkin’ death.”  
  
Podrick, Sansa, and Brienne stared on in awe. Brienne had heard the stories, too, growing up. Old wives, caretakers, and milkmaids always told the haunting tales of the monsters beyond the Wall to any eager child’s ear at bedtime. Other children skittered under their blankets at every telling, but Brienne never feared. The men of the Night’s Watch championed her hope and faith in those days. “Sworn protectors of the realm, knights who gave their lives for the good of the kingdom.” Brienne, however, upon her arrival at Castle Black, had learned the harsh truth of the Night’s Watch: an undermanned covey of thieves, rapers, and other manners of criminal sent to the Wall as punishment rather than protection were their sworn shield against the Long Night. To learn this together with the truth of those fabled monsters…the mere thought cut her to the bone as well as any white walker’s cold could.  
  
The most of their trip thus far proceeded in that fashion: Tormund regaling them with stories of his people and their adventures. He told them of giants and mammoths, shadowcats and direwolves. The magic of his stories drew Brienne in, captivated her with his passion for his people. Numerous times he caught a childlike glow of wonder on her face, try as she might to hide it. His storytelling only gained more fervor. The look on her face now must have betrayed her concern, for Tormund drew reign beside her and leaned in close.  
  
“Don’t worry yer pretty head, lass. I’ll protect ye when the wights come, and I’ll hold ye real close and tight to shield ye from their cold.”  
  
“You’ll do no such thing.”  
  
He laughed. “I expect yer right. You’ll be layin’ waste to the bastards with that fancy sword of yours. But, enough about those damned walkers. I’d rather hear about you.”  
  
“Pardon?”  
  
“Your home, your people. Where are they?”  
  
She hesitated. “Tarth. An island in the Sapphire Isle.”  
  
“Where’s that?”  
  
“Much further south than here, in the Narrow Sea.”  
  
“What’s it like?”  
  
Brienne paused, glanced at him, and thought. Details about her home and background came in tentative spurts and even then she revealed more than she intended. She had meant to leave it at Tarth and its beautiful lands and seas, then he asked why she fought, unlike most Ladies. He pulled from her the story of how she came to the sword, of her many lost fights against boys in her girlhood before her father relented to give her formal knight’s training. Tormund hung on to each word, asking questions one after the other. His curiosity baffled her, yet a warmth crept in to the spot where fear and aggravation once dwelled. Talking about her home sent her heart to keening, but the wonder on Tormund’s face poured like warm honey on the ache of homesickness.  
  
The last dregs of sunlight were slipping behind the hills of The Gift when Jon called a halt to the march. Before them loomed dense forests and Jon relented to make camp for the night rather than venture forth onto imperceptible grounds.  
  
Jon turned to the army. “We’re drawin’ closer on Winterfell’s territory. We’ll make camp ‘ere for the night and send out scouts to survey the area, just in case. Any volunteers?”  
  
“I’ll go,” announced Brienne.  
  
“And me,” joined Tormund. Brienne shot him a glare at which he returned a toothy grin.  
  
“Alright then. Form two parties. Brienne, take the southwest side, Tormund, take southeast. I’ll expect you back in an hour’s time.”  
  
As the rest of the people broke, Tormund, Brienne, and their small bands took off in their respective directions. Brienne’s trek went on in silence as she focused her senses and maneuvered the uneven grounds and ice-laden pitfalls of untraveled ground. She honed in on every sight and sound, from the quivering leaves to the breeze that rustled them. All seemed well, until a loud rustle sounded in the thicket to her left. She halted, shock still. She prompted the others to do the same as her eyes bore into that spot.  
  
Podrick stared around, confused. “What’s the matter, m—“  
  
“Shh!”  
  
Brienne dismounted and gripped Oathkeeper’s hilt as she eased toward the thicket. Upon her third step, the bush parted and she drew her blade. Oathkeeper sang through the trees as it met with steel.  
  
Brienne tripped the assailant as her unit dismounted in search of more concealed enemies. The blade came swinging back at her and they locked again. A clear view of him shone in the thin fingers of moonlight trickling through the foliage. On his breast he wore a patch: the upside down flayed man of House Bolton. Brienne pushed him back and delivered a smooth, clean blow that sliced through muscle and the bones of his ribs. He collapsed into a gurgling, convulsing heap on the forest floor.  
  
Brienne plunged Oathkeeper into his heart and cleaned the blade on her victim’s tunic. She stood gasping over the man’s body, the rush of sudden battle cooling in her bloodstream. _How long had he been there?_ Less than a minute passed before they heard frantic shouts off in the distance. A Night’s Watchman came riding through on a brown mare, shouting Brienne’s name as if it were the last thing he would say. He drew reign to a rough stop before Brienne.  
  
“Calm down, man, hush! What’s the matter with you?”  
  
“An attack! Near the camp! Bolton men, about 10 or 20, ambushed the wildling scouts, but—m’lady!”  
  
Brienne was already mounted and digging her feet into her gelding’s side to bolt for the southeast flank of the forest. The gelding’s thundering gallop drowned the rest of the man’s report, but it mattered not. The timing of her own assailant, the dead quiet of the forest, they reeked of suspicion.  
  
_They knew long ago we were coming._  
  
She scrunched her face as wind-drawn tears streamed into her hair.  
  
_Don’t die, wildling. Don’t you dare die on me!_


End file.
